No one moved. Even the prioress, who very much wanted to step closer so she could hear what the old nun was saying, stayed where she was.
“The Virgin speaks through the Sacra Cintola,” Sister Pureza said. “Her miracles are conducted through the belt. Her desires are communicated through the belt, Provost Inghirami.”
“You’re an old, foolish woman,” the prior general said, finding his voice at last.
Sister Pureza turned to him. Although she was small and stooped, the difference in their size seemed suddenly insignificant.
“What else can it be, but that the Virgin Mary of the Sacra Cintola, protector of mothers and children, is unhappy with what has come to pass here in Prato?”
She leveled her gray eyes at the prior general, then at the provost.
“The belt isn’t here. I suggest you look inward, and prayerfully consider what’s been done to offend Our Holy Mother.”
Having spoken her piece, Sister Pureza stepped back, her eyes not leaving the provost’s. The horses stamped the earth, the pigs routed in the mud, and overhead, falcons circled.
The prior general turned to the prioress. He thought he smelled urine as he approached her.
“We’ll be back, Prioress,” he said. “You had best take care of how you, and your charges, speak to me.”
As their horses trotted along Via Santa Margherita, Provost Inghirami felt faint with anxiety. He slowed alongside the prior general’s black steed.
“What if the old woman is right?”
“Don’t be a fool.” Prior General Saviano didn’t even look at him as he shook his head.
“In the name of God, I can’t dismiss what she’s said. I’ve witnessed the belt’s power many times. I’ve seen the Sacra Cintola cure a child of leprosy, and stop the bleeding of a mother who’d lost three sons before she was delivered of twins two months after she touched the cintola. I can’t ignore what Sister Pureza said.”
The prior general’s mind raced. He felt sure the old woman had somehow hatched a plot to put the fear of God into Inghirami. But what if she hadn’t? What if the Virgin Mary herself had actually removed the belt? In Florence, he’d seen the miraculous Holy Mother bring a child back from the brink of death, and cure an old man who had the rage of Satan in him. The power of the Sacra Cintola was legendary throughout the land, and was widely known to have cured the noble donna Josefina da Liccio di Verona of a weak womb when she’d traveled to Prato for the festa some years ago.
“The feast is in three days,” Inghirami said as the bell tower of Santo Stefano came into view over the rooftops. “If the Sacra Cintola isn’t here on the morning of the festa, we can be certain the Curia’s guards will be here by evening.”
Prior General Saviano reared his steed to a stop in the Piazza della Pieve. The falcons that had been circling the field beyond the convent seemed to have followed them. Now a swarm of gnats hung in the air around them in a humming brown cloud, and merchants and messengers in the plaza made a large circle around them. The prior general waved his hands to cut through the swell of insects.
“A pox on the old nun,” he cried, and his horse snorted and stamped. “She can’t command what we do.”
“With all respect, Prior General, the Virgin’s strength is greater than any man’s, and her power extends from earth into heaven.” The provost swatted a gnat from his cheek. “Imagine reaching the gates of eternity only to find the Blessed Mother was angry at you.”
The two men shuddered. They nodded to each other in wordless agreement.
Lucrezia sat up when Sister Pureza entered the infermeria. The old woman’s cheeks were red, her eyes alert.
“Rosina told me the prior general is here,” the young woman said, a catch in her throat. “Is it true?”
“He’s gone. Don’t worry, my dear, he won’t come near you.” Sister Pureza squared her stooped shoulders. “He came because the Sacra Cintola is missing.”
“Stolen?” Lucrezia gasped. “Who would do such a thing?”
“Not stolen.” Sister Pureza took Lucrezia’s hand. “I think this may be the miracle we’ve hoped for,” she whispered. “The Virgin has indeed seen your plight, and heard your prayers. And I believe she’s speaking now.”
Lucrezia’s eyes stung. She gently removed her hand from Sister Pureza’s, and pushed the covers off her legs. She slid out of bed, barely feeling the ache in her groin, and knelt on the hard floor. She made the sign of the cross, and began to pray.
Outside, near the well in the chapter house garden, Sister Bernadetta and Sister Maria heard Lucrezia through the open door of the infirmary.
“Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with Thee.” Her voice was loud and clear. “Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.”
“She’s praying,” Sister Maria said, feeling a flood of joy at the strong sound of Lucrezia’s voice. She made the sign of the cross and fell to her knees beside the well.
Moved by Sister Maria’s compassion, Sister Bernadetta also fell to her knees and began praising the Virgin Mary.
“Holy Mary, Mother of God, Virgin of the Holy Belt.” Their voices joined together and rose on the wind that wafted through the doorway of the infirmary, over the high walls of the convent, into the streets of Prato.
Lucrezia prayed all day, and on through Vespers. Rumors of the missing belt passed from the mouth of the convent’s stable boy, and spread like fire through the humblest homes of Prato. The stars came out, and the moon witnessed Lucrezia’s devotion. Her plea was felt in the fingers of the solitary weavers in Prato who worked beside the last embers in their hearths; it stirred the housemaids in the Valenti palazzo, who’d eavesdropped at the door of their mistress’s room and learned of the young woman’s misfortune. Lucrezia’s vigil, and news of the missing belt, moved the hearts of expectant mothers, and even Rosina’s mother, who was eating the last of her thin gruel before bed, found herself praying more fiercely than usual for the benevolence of the Mother of the Holy Belt.
When Teresa de’ Valenti kissed the forehead of her son, Ascanio, that night, remembering his birth nearly one year ago, she said a special prayer of thanks to the Virgin of the Belt and asked her to bless Lucrezia and her child.
“The babe is gone, and now they say the belt is missing,” Signora Teresa whispered on her knees, fingering her fine prayer beads. “Dear Mother, make the world right, I beg of you. Ave Maria, gratia plena.”
Not one of the women who prayed that night knew for certain that the missing child and the stolen relic were linked. Not one saw Fra Filippo sketching by candlelight in the old stone waterhouse beside Fra Piero’s small dwelling. Not one visited Provost Inghirami or heard his desperate prayers to the Virgin.
But if any one of the women had pulled on her cloak, walked to the edge of the Bisenzo River, and looked up into the branches of the tallest cypress, she might have seen the dark cloth that was hidden among the thick leaves of the tree. And if she’d reached up, as far as the height of two men, and tugged a loose thread that hung from the black silk, the Sacra Cintola, glowing in the moonlight, might have fallen out of the wrapping and dropped into her waiting arms.
Chapter Twenty-nine
Monday of the Fourteenth Week After Pentecost, the Year of Our Lord 1457
Dawn was still far away when an invisible hand pulled the bell at the convent gate, but Sister Pureza was already awake, and listening. She rose quickly, her eyes scanning the dusty hall of the dormitory as she hurried into the cool night. The old nun heard the cows and pigs grunting in the dark barnyard, and snores greeted her as she rustled past the prioress’s private quarters.
At the gate, Sister Pureza slid open the small peephole.
“Who’s there?” She wasn’t surprised when her question was met with silence.
Sister Pureza turned the lock and opened the gate. There was a basket on the flagstone step, and in it lay an infant wrapped in a blanket. The old nun looked right and left, but whoever had delivered
the child had vanished. Dawn was breaking in a dim line on the horizon as the baby let out a weak cry.
The midwife heard softly padding footsteps, and turned to see Lucrezia approaching.
“Mio bambino.” Lucrezia pushed past Sister Pureza and fell to her knees. She lifted the child into her arms and held him tightly. He smelled of milk and the cool mist of dawn.
“At last,” she cried, fumbling in the folds of the blanket to find his small hands. “He’s cold, Sister Pureza,” she exclaimed, laughing and weeping at once. “My little Filippino’s hands are cold.”
She pressed the child against her and rocked back and forth, falling immediately into the natural sway and rhythm of motherhood. Lucrezia had no doubt: the Great Mother had protected her child, heard her prayers, and returned her son to her.
“Thank you, Blessed Mother. Thank you,” she said.
But Sister Pureza was not so easily satisfied. Locking the convent gate, she gently reached for the baby.
“What is it?” Lucrezia’s voice rose to a high pitch. “You can’t have him, Sister Pureza. He’s mine. The Virgin returned him to me.”
“Hush, hush, it’s all right, Lucrezia. I just want to be sure it’s your son.”
“Of course it’s my son, the Virgin sent him, it’s the miracle we prayed for.”
“Yes, of course,” Sister Pureza said as she stroked the young woman’s damp hair. “There’s a mark, Lucrezia. The Lord gave your child a birthmark, so you might always know him, wherever he was sent.”
Lucrezia’s grip loosened a small bit. “If it’s a boy, it must be Filippino,” she insisted, her eyes clouding. “It must be him.”
Opening the child’s blanket without taking him from Lucrezia’s arms, Sister Pureza pushed the folds to one side. The baby wore a cloth wrapped around his bottom. She loosened the knots and turned him over.
“Yes.” She bared the small red cross so that Lucrezia could see it. “This is your son. The Virgin of the Sacra Cintola has indeed returned him to you.”
When Fra Piero came to the infirmary at Prime, the baby was at Lucrezia’s breast. She made a small effort to cover herself, but was too peaceful and delirious to be unduly modest.
“Please tell Fra Filippo.” Her voice was thick. “Tell him the Virgin Mother has returned the child to me, and the Lord has marked him with the sign of His blessing.”
She smiled gently, her face glowing. The child was warm in the crook of her arm, his body nestled against hers, the skin of her breast and the plump warmth of his cheek pressed together as one. She put a finger against the baby’s damp palm and Filippino wrapped his hand around it, the translucent fingernails pumping with his blood. His eyes were shut, his cheeks filling and emptying, his lips pursed with the steady work of suckling. His eyelids, moist and purple, fluttered as he broke his mouth from her nipple. Lucrezia turned her blue eyes away from the infant, and sought the procurator’s.
“Fra Piero,” she said. “Please ask Filippo to come and take us home.”
For at least the tenth time, Mother Bartolommea looked through the basket that had been left outside the convent gate. She shook her head, and muttered to Sister Camilla.
“There must have been some gold, something in the basket, a sign of gratitude from the Virgin,” she said. “The child entered the world here, we gave his mother shelter, we’ve endured the anger of the provost and the prior general.”
The prioress shivered at the thought of Prior General Saviano. What would he say when he heard the infant had been returned to Lucrezia and the two of them were here together, against his direct wishes?
“Sister Camilla,” she called with certainty. “The prior general has been very clear. He doesn’t want the child here on the consecrated grounds of the Order.”
Sister Camilla’s nose was bright red. Prioress Bartolommea looked at it twice. She certainly hoped the secretary wasn’t moved by the return of the child, or sympathetic to Lucrezia’s foolish plight.
“The mother and child must go,” the prioress said. “As soon as they’re able. There’s no place for fornicators in our midst, Sister Camilla.”
“What about our altarpiece, Prioress?”
The prioress blinked and reached for her spectacles. She thought she saw a smirk on Sister Camilla’s face.
“It’s already begun,” she said. She fumbled for a parchment which she unrolled and held up to the sister with a flourish. “The painter has agreed in writing. It’s as good as a contract.”
In his friend’s modest house beyond the city walls, Fra Filippo stepped back and looked at the two works he’d propped against the wall. One was the prepared poplar with the detailed sketch for the convent’s altarpiece; the other was the Adoring Madonna for the Medici.
He’d spent the better part of the last two days hiding from Cantansanti and sketching out the piece for the convent, with the Blessed Virgin handing the Sacra Cintola to Saint Thomas. He knew the altarpiece would be beautiful, the Virgin in a mandorla against a teal sky, Saint Thomas kneeling at her feet with his hands holding the green and golden belt. The prioress would be present, too, as she had to be, her pinched features and clenched hands stark against the black robe as she, too, knelt at the feet of the Virgin beside Saints Margaret, Gregory, Augustine, and two others. The Virgin, in whose honor he’d labored on the piece, would be spectacular. And Saint Margaret, namesake of the convent, would bear the lovely countenance of Lucrezia.
The plans for this piece had excited him at first, as he’d poured his penitent prayers to the Virgin into its design. But now, his eyes kept returning to the Medici’s Adoring Madonna. He couldn’t hide from the emissary for much longer.
Bowing his head, Fra Filippo leaned closer to study his lovely Virgin kneeling in the woods. She had Lucrezia’s face, the purple morello of the robe and the benda of delicate pearls she’d worn that first day she’d come to his bottega. The Virgin smiled softly as she adored her Child and all the light of the world seemed caught beneath her glowing skin. In the depths, the elm tree held tight to its vine, and the forest floor was strewn with the most delicate violet blossoms.
Only the Child’s face was missing now.
A year ago, he’d longed to see the face of his Madonna, and God had shown it to him. Now, he longed for the face of his son. Ser Francesco could bring an army to his doorstep, he could beat him with his own hands, but as long as Lucrezia remained in the convent and his son was gone, Fra Filippo knew he would never be able to finish this altarpiece. He could not paint another infant until he saw the face of his own.
“Filippo, good news, praise God.”
The monk turned at the sound of his old friend at the doorway. Fra Piero’s face was ruddy, his crooked smile beaming.
“I’ve just come from the convent. Your son has been returned, strong and healthy—”
“Robusto? My son?” Fra Filippo wasn’t sure if he’d heard the procurator correctly. “My son is returned?”
“Si, today, just this morning mother and child are together.”
“I must see them, pronto.”
The monk began to push past the procurator, already imagining the blessed scene that awaited him at the convent.
“Stop.” The procurator put out his hand.
“Is something wrong?” Fra Filippo’s face darkened. “What aren’t you telling me?”
“The prioress will not allow you to take them away with everyone watching. You must wait till the festa, when Lucrezia and il bambino will be alone at the convent. Then you can bring them home.”
In a white robe that badly needed to be scrubbed and cleaned, Fra Filippo returned to his bottega. He wrapped his treasured works in an old curtain, and carefully stored the paintings and the newly sketched panel in a corner of the room, out of harm’s way. Then the monk walked out toward the Piazza Mercatale.
Even if he took Lucrezia and the child away from Prato, they’d still need many things, and soon: a cradle and some linens; a cushion for Lucrezia’s chair; a tiny pi
ece of coral to hang around the baby’s neck to ward off evil spirits. Hoping his silver would buy these few things, the monk hurried along the streets, joining the crowds that had arrived in the city for the coming festa.
At the door of Santo Stefano, he entered the dusty light of the building and stopped at the locked gates to the Chapel of the Sacra Cintola. There, he fell to his knees. The Blessed Mother had done what they’d asked.
“Sancta Maria, Mother of God. I pledge myself to you.”
Feeling his vigor renewed, the monk prayed loudly and gestured exuberantly. When he was finished, he stood and brushed off the front of his robe. Glancing toward the cappella maggiore, where his assistants kept up their steady patter, he thought of the many days and long nights he had spent there in painful tribulation. The very space of the church now seemed transformed by his joy.
He felt himself pulled toward the frescoes, his attention riveted on the scene of Saint Stephen being switched at birth. His eyes moved over the green demon, to the balia in her orange robe, and came to rest on the sacra cerva, the holy deer that had suckled the infant saint and kept him alive, according to legend. The deer’s legs, beautifully folded under her, were still shining with the last layer of color he’d instructed his assistants to add.
“Grazie,” the painter whispered to the cerva. “Thank you for watching over my son.”
“Good maestro.” The voice was soft, but right behind him, in his ear. Fra Filippo turned. It was Young Marco. The boy had paint smudged on his cheek, a streak of brown the color of the deer’s fur. “Maestro, I’ve finished all that you asked, and hope you will look at what I’ve done, and tell me if it is good.”
The painter stared down at the boy, his eyes soft as the doe.
“Young Marco.” He spoke the garzone’s diminutive name for the first time. For the rest of his days, whenever he smelled the oil soap used to scrub church floors, he would remember this moment. “Si, Young Marco, it is good. What you have done is good.”
The Miracles of Prato Page 29
